


fidelitas

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Bittersweet, Courtly Love, F/F, Future Fic, Pining, Post-Season/Series 06, Pre-Femslash, Queen Sansa, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 07:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7882771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has made a vow—to Sansa and to herself—and she would break it for no one. Not even for Sansa and definitely not for herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fidelitas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musamihi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/gifts).



“She looks beautiful up there, does she not?” Baelish says, leaning entirely too close, his breath brushing her ear, warm, much too warm for the cold halls of Winterfell. He does this sometimes, whispers to her with that grating, graveling voice of his. Mostly it is inconsequential nattering and she can ignore it easily. But sometimes… She suppresses a shiver as best she can and ensures her breathing remains steady, that she doesn’t sigh in disgust. She will not give him the satisfaction.

Had she her way, he would have found himself stranded in the snow—or driven north to the Wall where, gods willing, wights would disembowel him before he managed to squeeze his way out of that tight spot, too.

“Mind your tongue, Lord Baelish,” she replies, her voice sure, her tone decisive. Sansa may feel he is worth keeping around, but she is Sansa’s Queensguard and it is her duty to protect her Queen from friend and foe alike. Often, she has found, the two are one and the same once a person gains a certain amount of power. If her hand tightens around the pommel of Oathkeeper, if Baelish _sees_ her hand tighten around it, well. She is a zealous guardian.

She has always been a zealous guardian.

Besides, she has learned something of the man beside her: he has as much a weakness as she, Brienne herself, does. He would not have Brienne killed for threatening him, though many others would try. No. Threats do not persuade, dissuade, or otherwise trouble him. In fact, she believes he finds them comforting in their own way.

He cannot begrudge her this. It would put his own plans at risk if Sansa is not protected to the utmost of each of their abilities.

And ever the efficient thinker, he likely presumes she will die protecting Sansa and he needn’t do anything save wait for her downfall.

To be honest, Brienne presumes the same.

Strangely, that might make her as safe from him as Sansa is.

He’s not wrong though. About Sansa’s beauty. How well she sits Winterfell’s throne, the wood of it still new and gleaming beneath the grey and white fabric of her gown, its wool threaded through with silver embroidered Stark direwolves, Tully fish. Her hair flickers in the candlelight as she tilts her head to better hear the supplicant before her.

For this, Brienne can forgive neither him nor herself.

Perhaps, then, he should be more afraid of what Brienne might do to him than Brienne is of what he could do to her. He tests her patience well enough and even her anger has its limits, particularly when he hits on uncomfortable subjects, knowingly or not.

Some days, she feels willing to face her Queen’s wrath to rid them both of his influence.

This has clearly turned into one of those days.

*

Sansa is not the charismatic leader Renly was. And she will never command the blind loyalty of her followers the way he did—who else except Renly could convince even one person that he’d had more right to the Iron Throne than Stannis? But she has earned something else despite early fumblings and a pain-filled transition from bastard king to untested queen.

Her people’s trust. From Stark to Bolton to Snow and back to Stark. That, she has earned in greater quantity than Brienne has seen in her lifetime. In a place, even, where trust could only ever save you—or destroy you completely.

Sansa is definitely not the charismatic leader Renly was. But she has proved herself as worthy of Brienne’s devotion as he did so long ago.

*

“Do you not like it?” Sansa asks, her eyes trained on Brienne’s body. It’s an analytical gaze, one determined to root out the errors she sees there. Brienne’s heart throbs to see it and she must look away to keep from expressing her disappointment—for having disappointed Sansa. “Brienne,” she continues, almost barking the word. She sighs then, impatient. “I had thought—you don’t like it, do you?”

Brienne swallows. “It’s very fine, Your Grace,” she allows, touching the smooth hem of the tunic, the crisp fall of the sleeve against her wrist. She otherwise wills herself to remain still as Sansa continues to scrutinize her. She wishes this scrutiny would stop. And she wishes it wouldn’t.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it,” Sansa replies, low, sardonic. “I had thought you might enjoy the blue. I remember—” She cuts herself off so abruptly that Brienne must look at her to see what has happened. But when she lifts her eyes, she finds that Sansa has lowered hers. And her cheeks have gone pink.

 _What do you remember,_ Brienne thinks, but doesn’t dare say. Instead, she asks, “Do _you_ like it, Your Grace?” Which, as far as questions go, is nearly as dangerous. And she regrets asking immediately, her stomach threatening to revolt against her foolish, foolish mouth.

Sansa’s eyes snap upward, easily find Brienne’s. “I do,” she says with a lack of guile Brienne admires. “It suits you every bit as much as I thought it would. But if you do not like it, what I think hardly matters.”

“It matters a great deal to me, Your Grace,” Brienne replies, because she cannot lie and she cannot abide the indecision that settles on Sansa’s face. This tunic, these trousers, all well-fitting and comfortable and far handsomer than anything Brienne owns except perhaps Oathkeeper… Sansa had gone through a lot of trouble to see them made for her. Brienne is not so ungrateful that she will not take them, especially if Sansa prefers them.

Sansa’s lips purse together momentarily. Changes the subject entirely for reasons Brienne can’t understand. “Would you call me Sansa if I asked?” she says, unhappiness clear in her voice, though how Brienne can tell is anyone’s guess.

Brienne straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, looks at a point on the other side of the room. “That wouldn’t be—”

“Not out there,” Sansa says, gesturing vaguely toward the main hall. “I know it wouldn’t be proper. But these are your private quarters and no one else can hear us.” Sighing, surprisingly petulant despite her position and poise, she shakes her head. “I miss being called by my name. With Jon out training the other houses’ forces…”

 _There’s no one else you can ask,_ Brienne thinks. Every bone in her body rebels at the thought of crossing this line. And yet she would deny Sansa nothing. And this is, in the scheme of the world, a very small thing indeed. “Of course, mi—” She inclines her head in recognition of the mistake, an old one, one she hasn’t made in quite some time. Sansa has been no mere _lady_ for quite some time now. “Sansa.”

“That’s better.” The smile Sansa offers, bright and full, more than makes up for the awkwardness of her name on Brienne’s tongue, the longing she feels at having said it. “You’ll wear this tonight, won’t you?” she asks, as though she could not order Brienne to do just that. “For supper?”

“I—” _What is it you want, Your Grace?_ Slowly, she completes her answer. “If it pleases you, Sansa, I should be perfectly happy to do so.”

 _What are you doing, Brienne,_ she hears. The voice sounds suspiciously like Jaime’s at his most critical.

She does not like it in the slightest.

She does not know the answer either.

And she likes that even less.

*

The great hall is empty when she enters, her footsteps echoing against the cold, granite walls, the hardwood floors. Or mostly empty save for Sansa, who sits at the center of the long table at the back, raised up on a small dais. She looks so small in her furs, hunched forward, the soft coat brushing at her cheeks. Regardless, she lifts her head at Brienne’s entrance and Brienne immediately notes the pink flush of her cheeks, the reflection of the newly built fire nearby.

“Ser Brienne,” she says, her voice low and warm, better than ale and whiskey and every alcohol Brienne might think to compare it to. The effect, anyway, is similar.

“You mustn’t call me that, Yo—” And there it is again. She sighs. “Sansa. I am no knight.”

“You’re my Queensguard.” Sansa rises to her feet, hands splayed before her as she leans her weight against the table. “If ever a person deserved a knighthood, it’s you.” Her eyes graze from the top of Brienne’s pale blonde head to the bottom of her scrubbed boots. “And you fit every conception I could have about them. Why should you not be Ser Brienne to me?”

“I have not been knighted,” she replies.

“Perhaps we should change that,” Sansa says simply, motioning for Brienne to join her on the dais.

Brienne’s heart pounds hard against her sternum, blood rushing in her ears. Heat flares in her chest, her face, and not because of the fire. No doubt she, too, is now flushed. And unlike Sansa, it does not become her. She has seen what she looks like when redness blooms across her face. It mottles her skin. It is the furthest thing from lovely. And for all that, she only warms more, embarrassed by it. “Your Grace?” she asks, hesitating, forgetting entirely her agreement to refer to Sansa by her name, forgetting, for a moment, the forward motion of her gait.

“Come,” Sansa insists, tapping at the yet empty table. “I would have surprised you,” she adds, “but I didn’t believe you would have enjoyed that.”

“Ah,” Brienne says, rueful as she takes that final step forward and up, the dais now under her feet, “no.”

“Good.” Pleased, Sansa leans back, gloved hand wrapping around the arm of the chair next to her. “I’m glad I could warn you.” She turns her head and nods at the girl who appears in a doorway across the room.

After that, the gods might have rained down terror on Winterfell and no one would have noticed it. Members of the kitchen staff pour in from direction, carrying plates and silver first, then food and drink and delicacies, so many dishes Brienne can’t even begin to name them all. “This is—” she says, tugging at the perfect hem of her sleeve. “—far too much for me, Your Grace.”

She’s seen a number of Winterfell feasts now and they have never looked like this.

“Maester Tarley has informed me that though winter will be hard and long, we have managed to prepare far better than he’d have thought possible with the wildlings’ help. But some of our stores will not keep much longer even so. He suggested we not waste the opportunity to enjoy the last of the summer fruits. I happen to agree.” Leaning toward Brienne, Sansa flashes her teeth. “And I cannot think of a better way to celebrate. Can you?”

 _Yes_ , Brienne thinks, but only because the idea that so many people witnessing the occasion makes her… well. It isn’t proper for the Queensguard to seat herself next to her queen, is it? Not even when Sansa is the one who’s insisted. And to be honest, she’s never enjoyed crowded events like this. They usually end in trouble. Or worse.

(They remind her of her times in Renly’s camp, too, where celebrations constantly brewed and bubbled, feasts planned for no reason save for him—or Lord or Lady Tyrell, or anyone else to be honest—wanting to have one. That had been all it had taken. And look where it had gotten them all.)

“I will not force you to remain long,” Sansa continues, correctly taking Brienne’s silence for reticence. “Just long enough so that everyone can see…”

Brienne takes the seat offered to her, lowers herself slowly into it. The hard wood of it holds firm against her back and against her thighs. They care little for small comforts in the North—and to that tradition, Sansa has remained true despite her own occasional misgivings. Brienne has witnessed the discomfited way she’ll sometimes shift after having sat for long hours, the flicker of amusement in her eyes when Brienne catches her. She may not cut herself on this throne, but she has not chosen luxury though it would be within her right to demand it. “Can see what, Your Grace?” she asks finally, eyes drifting to the lords and ladies now filing into the hall, the kitchen staff retreating quietly through doors leading the long way around back to their posts, out of sight.

Sansa’s brows knit together and her mouth puckers slightly in thought. “How highly I regard you,” she says. “And how seriously I take your position in Winterfell.”

Brienne has no idea how to answer that, growing more awkward as the seconds pass. The awkwardness stays with her long after Sansa has directed her attention elsewhere, speaking with Maester Tarley when he approaches, a shy smile gracing his mouth, or overseeing the placement of plates on their table, her hands flicking this way and that.

In a way, Brienne appreciates the reprieve.

It might be the only one she gets the rest of the night.

*

Snow falls with near constancy in Winterfell. Brienne should have known this, should have expected it, but it still surprises her when she walks outside and sees the frozen flakes dance in the air around her. There will be years of this according to the maesters of the Citadel, many years of it quite probably—for usual and unusual reasons alike, though she prefers not to think of the latter, not when they have only just begun accumulating dragonglass to fight the White Walkers, when they don’t stand much of a chance regardless, when the south continues to squabble over the Iron Throne and it’s only a matter of time before Daenerys Stormborn turns her attention to the rightful ruler of the North, an exhausted army at her back, no intent to ally in her heart. No, she prefers to think nothing of this. And yet, except for Sansa, it is the only thing she can think about.

She hates the snow because it masks the truth. It obscures reality behind a cold, quiet hush. It would lull Brienne with a false sense of security if she let it.

She doesn’t let it. Not ever.

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa says, noting her presence for the first time since she’d insisted Brienne accompany her on a stroll of the grounds. The train of her dress marks a stark contrast against the ground, dark gray sweeping aside pristine white. When Brienne is not scanning the perimeter for threats, she is focused on that. So when Sansa stops walking, Brienne notices it.

Brienne lifts her attention to Sansa as Sansa turns to face her. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Sansa’s eyebrows lift, a silent rebuke on her lips.

“Yes, Sansa?” Brienne says, inclining her head and fighting the urge to smile in mockery of herself. One day, she might easily call Sansa by her name. But today is not that day. “What can I do for you?”

Sansa’s dress shushes as she moves, her arm lifting the heavy cloth that spills from her forearm all the way to the ground. “Walk with me,” she says, pleasure flickering in the blue of her eyes the way Brienne remembers light striking the water the Straits of Tarth. The implication is clear—and Brienne cannot help but think of the stories she’d read as a child. In them, knights keep careful hold on the delicate curve of a lady’s elbow and, if he is lucky, the lady leans into them as they share a quiet moment together, conversation drifting from trivialities to love to admissions. A token might be exchanged.

No doubt Sansa has heard those stories, too.

In any case, the lady’s part has never appealed to Brienne. She hadn’t—and still does not have—any wish to hold her arm out for a knight. She does not wish to receive a token or speak of love as the passive recipient of it.

The knight though? She’d found much to venerate in his part. But she has neither the words nor the tokens that Sansa deserves, could not offer them even if she knew what to say or give. She has made a vow—to Sansa and to herself—and she would break it for no one. Not even for Sansa and definitely not for herself.

Regardless, she cannot deny Sansa this small thing. Likely, she doesn’t understand what she’s asking. Or she could not believe Brienne would want anything of her that she should not give. Still, Brienne does as she’s bid. No one could blame her for that. And they certainly would be unable to tell that the strides she takes in order to catch up to Sansa are quicker and longer than normal.

“My armor may be cold,” Brienne says.

“I have gloves,” Sansa replies, curling her arm around Brienne’s elbow, her hand settling near her own stomach. “And it will warm soon enough anyway.”

With an awkward shuffle, Brienne matches Sansa’s slow gait, hears the rush of blood in her ears accompanied by the crackle of fallen branches and ice-crusted snow beneath her feet. The scent of lemon drifts, crisp and sweet, to tickle at her nose. She turns her head to hide her smile from Sansa. Where she’s managed to find lemons is beyond Brienne’s understanding. But if anyone could, it’s her. And Brienne finds herself glad for it.

Sansa deserves to have the things in life that bring her joy.

Would that Brienne could add to that happiness. If she had that right…

But she doesn’t. And she can’t. She is Sansa’s Queensguard and that is all she can ever hope to be.

Sansa’s arm tightens on Brienne’s. “After King’s Landing,” she says, her words low and intimate, “I stopped believing in tales of valiant knights and courtly manners and good people loving one another.” She tilts and turns her head, the line of her neck arching gracefully. Surely she must see the surprise Brienne cannot hide at hearing such words. Then, the even greater surprise when she finishes her thought: “You make me want to believe in them again.”

“I—Your Grace…” Heat floods Brienne’s face and body, so much of it that the chill of the air strikes her with more ferocity than she thought possible. “That is…” _Too much,_ she thinks. _Do you mean it?_

Stilling, Sansa grips Brienne all the harder, stopping her as well. “Accept the compliment,” she says— _commands_. Then, pushing herself onto her toes, she presses her lips against Brienne’s cheek. Her lips are soft against Brienne’s cheek and her breath warm as she pulls away. Her mouth curves wickedly upward and there is fire now in her eyes.

 _Nothing can come of it,_ she reminds herself. _It can mean nothing_. According to the stories, it’s the only kind of affection a lady can bestow upon her knight—more than, if she’s honest, as none of the stories she knows had gotten as far as a kiss, even a chaste one such as this.

“And my care,” Sansa says, resuming her stroll, pulling Brienne along beside her. She frowns slightly, the only sign she gives that anything might be amiss. Sighing, she shifts, her shoulders hunching up slightly. “Winterfell wouldn’t be the same without you by my side.”

Brienne’s mouth falls open, her thoughts momentarily a blank as she tries to form acceptable words. The only ones that come to mind cannot convey the entirety of what she feels and a lump forms in her throat that stops her from answering completely. “Always, Your Grace,” she manages finally, both too little and too much. The words scrape at the back of her throat and come out almost in a jumble. “I’ll always be here for you.”

And though she knows that can’t remain true forever, it’s true enough for now.

“I care for you, too,” she adds, stiff, but refusing to allow her courage to fail her.

 _That_ , on the contrary, Brienne expects will remain a vow unbroken, the one thing in life she needn’t regret at all.


End file.
